PREFACE (continued 4)

Mr. Bang ignored my jibe for a moment; and then he told the following story:

“Once I was staying at Ottawa for some days. Some person told me it was the custom for visitors to call upon the wives of Ministers. Why people should desire to call, or why the obligation to receive all and sundry should be thrown upon Ministers’ wives, I don’t know; but, being idle, I called upon one of them. I knew the daughter of the house and talked to her for the regulation five minutes, and then made a motion to leave. The girl begged me to stay, and I stayed. From my corner of the room, the constant stream of frivolity in and out amused me, it was a novelty. I stayed, making myself useful, until the ebb set in and then I went away. I attended the rink that evening and the first thing I heard was that I had visited at a Minister’s house that afternoon and stayed over an hour. This girl had asked me to overstay custom for the sole purpose of having something to gossip about. Knowing that she and her people were a source of innocent merriment, she planned to make me, in turn, an object of ridicule. But can any civilized being understand the mind that would stoop to such folly? Yet Ottawa accepted these people, as ‘so quaint don’t you know?’ They were quaint indeed.”

To-day was not as cold as yesterday, and we went for a drive. We drove about Rockcliffe and through the grounds of Government House—Rideau Hall. At dinner Uncle announced that he had secured tickets for an exhibition of skating to be held this evening.

Such skating as I saw I had never before pictured in the wildest flights of fancy. There was skating free, and skating in pairs, and there were figures done by fours. Such grace, such rhythmic motion, such ease, such exactness! And the music, the band helped one to ecstasy. One would think to watch the skating that those people had been bred to it, they swung from circle to circle with such marvellous ease and assurance.

The dance of the fairies will ever live in my memory. The rink was darkened and a shaft of green light was thrown upon the ice. Over the ice came a band of maidens led by a most beautiful skater of delightful form, swaying and flitting, their white draperies responding to their motions which were tuned to the music. The leader came down the middle of the ice, her followers filed at the sides. They were as sprites. I’m sure nothing so lovely was ever seen before. They filled the rink, swayed, marked time, as it were, and then retreated. They went as they came, rhythmic, beautiful.

There were other scenes, pageants, call them what you will, but I paid little heed to them. The dance of the fairies had appealed to me so strongly that the others made little impression. And then when the lights went up after the dance of the fairies, I saw among the spectators Charlie Lien. It made me sick at heart. I had decided, as the vulgar say, to cut him out; and now—I found my heart pounding. All my resolutions faded as a fog-bank dissolves before the rising sun. Oh dear!

January 12th.

Charlie Lien met me in a corridor this morning. He is staying at this hotel. He says he came down to play in a hockey match this evening. Had it been possible I would have avoided him. He had evidently planned to give me no such opportunity. He addressed me with: “Hello, old girl.” And then protested life was no good without me, he must have someone on whom to spend his money. He invited me to drive out in the afternoon with him to Aylmer. I declined. He drew me into a recess and used his every art to break my resolve. I allowed him to kiss me, to put his arm about me, but I held to my determination and made no response. To give the devil his due, as Dad would say, he did not tell me he loved me. But then, perhaps, he knew that if he told me he loved me I would ask him if he desired to marry me. So perhaps I am more than just to him. In any case these reflections helped me to gather my wits together and I calmly walked away from him. From first to last I had not uttered a word.

Away from him at first I felt sorry I had not accepted his invitation—and then glad. How strangely are we, am I, constituted. There is something attractive and something offensive about that young man.

This evening there was a concert in the drawing-room. Like the bazaar, it was in aid of charity; and like the bazaar was under vice-regal patronage. There were songs and a speech from His Excellency. Then a painting by Lady Muriel was to be auctioned. The gathering was all very grand and interesting. Ministers high in the Government and their wives were present. The dresses were gorgeous.

The picture Lady Muriel had painted and which was to be sold was a log cabin in the forest with a mountain towering in the background. Mr. Bang, I noticed, regarded it with a critical eye. I could notice that Lady Muriel had her mind on it; and when it was put on sale became visibly interested. She was standing with her mother and sisters, and with them also was a good-looking man, who I afterwards learned was generally known as Dapper Dicky.

“How much am I offered for the picture?” asked the auctioneer.

“Seventy-five dollars,” replied Dapper Dicky over his shoulder. He was deep in conversation with Her Excellency.

“One hundred dollars,” bid a voice at my side. It was Mr. Bang.

“One hundred and twenty-five,” came from Dapper Dicky.

“One hundred and fifty,” bid Mr. Bang.

“One hundred and seventy-five,” responded the other, glancing again over his shoulder in an endeavour to see who was opposing him.

“And fifty would be a big price for it,” Uncle whispered in his nephew’s ear.

“Two hundred dollars,” offered Mr. Bang.

“Two hundred and fifty,” cried Dapper Dicky.

“Three hundred,” came from Mr. Bang.

Those present became interested and stared at Mr. Bang. Evidently he alone was the object of curiosity.

Dapper Dicky was evidently known to them. And he evidently was curious also. He gazed at Mr. Bang in a wondering sort of way and with an expression, which told that he did not exactly know where he was.

“Four hundred dollars,” he bid.

“Five hundred dollars,” bid Mr. Bang.

Good Lord I thought, can it be that Mr. Bang has had his head turned by Lady Muriel and is going to ruin himself?

Dapper Dicky became visibly confused.

“Six hundred dollars.”

“Six hundred and twenty-five,” bid Mr. Bang.

“Ah,” I thought, “Mr. Bang is becoming more cautious.”

“Six hundred and fifty.”

“Seven hundred.”

Mr. Bang offering seven hundred dollars for a picture not worth, as Uncle said, fifty!

“Eight hundred dollars,” retorted Dapper Dicky, whose full attention was now devoted to his opponent. His eyes were flashing in anger.

“Nine hundred,” bid Mr. Bang.

“One thousand dollars,” spluttered his opponent, while the company was lost in wonderment. No further word came from Mr. Bang.

“Any advance on one thousand dollars?” questioned the auctioneer. There was a silence as if of the tomb.

“Sold,” called the auctioneer.

“Come and have some supper, all of you, and I’ll invite Fraser.”

Mr. Fraser was gathered in and Mr. Bang marshalled us all towards the dining-room.

“Will you tell me what in the name of goodness you mean, by offering nine hundred dollars for a picture, not much better than I could do myself?” demanded Mumsie.

“Now Auntie! do give me credit for a little sense—common sense—and sense of humour! I had no intention of buying the thing.”

“What did you bid for then?”

“Don’t you know who that was I was bidding against?” Mr. Bang in turn demanded.

“Your nephew was bidding against Dapper Dicky,” explained Mr. Fraser, in matter of fact tones.

“It was amusing to see the expression on his face, when he found he had opposition. He is accustomed to have it all his own way. Now if you only knew Dapper Dicky—”

“He is not half a bad fellow, in fact a very decent fellow, I’ve found,” said Mr. Fraser.

“Who is he, what is he?” demanded Mumsie.

“Up till a few short months ago, he was a staunch supporter of the Liberal Government. He sold us many things, and made much money and then—”

“And then the Government changed, and so did Dicky,” interjected Mr. Bang. “ ‘You know,’ he said as he shook hands with one of Borden’s ministers, ‘I always was with you. I really never did care for these damned Grits.’ ”

“I believe, now, to make doubly sure, he has taken into partnership Colonel Nimble. Colonel Nimble is a life-long supporter of the party in power and will be able on that score, to command inordinate profits from them,” said Mr. Fraser.

“By the way, what is the Government going to do with Tom and Jerry,” asked Mr. Bang, looking into the Member’s eyes.

“Give ’em a hundred million or more I suppose, what else can they do?”

“Let ’em bust,” suggested Mr. Bang savagely.

“It would bring ruination to Canada, spoil our credit,” said Mr. Fraser.

“Bosh! it would do us good, shake things down to rock bottom, make us quit gambling and go to work. In this country, the net result of most people losing their money is that they begin to lead useful lives.”

“It would never do, you are joking. The banks, the money of the widows and orphans.”

“What most politicians and financiers are concerned about is their own money and their own speculations,” suggested Mr. Bang.

“The Canadian is a gambler no doubt,” said Uncle, “but when he loses in the gamble he cheerfully faces the issue.”

“But the trouble is that while he will cheerfully face adverse fortune himself, he expects others to accept the fate he brings them with equal nonchalance,” objected the disagreeable one.

“You Tories are to blame for Tom and Jerry’s road, the ‘Poverty, Distress and Want’,” claimed Mr. Fraser.

“I deny the allegation,” retorted Uncle with affected heat.

“Laurier wasted over two hundred million dollars on the Transcontinental,” said Mr. Bang. “The road was built to win the support of Quebec. So the price we pay for the honour of having Laurier Prime Minister for two extra terms is at least two hundred million dollars.”

“The road will pay some day and be regarded as a blessing.”

“That is a delightful possibility. But I know, know with a big ‘K,’ that the reason the Transcontinental was built was to hold Laurier in power. Quebec is always ready for public expenditure—within Quebec. The habitant makes his own whiskey, grows his own tobacco, pays no taxes. If debt is heaped up he can look on with indifference.”

“My man,” thought I, “you certainly have your knife out for the Canadian French.”

“Do you think,” asked Uncle, looking at Mr. Fraser, “that the Government of to-day is any improvement on that constituted by the Family Compact in Ontario?”

“Certainly, our present Government is by the people.”

“But as a Government, I mean, are officials more conscientious, more honest, does the man in the street fare better, is there less waste of public money?”

“I think so! Yes.”

“Is working a graft less pernicious when carried out by an elected representative, than when it is done by a member of an autocracy like the Family Compact?”

“They call it graft here; while in England it is known as ‘family influence’,” cut in Mr. Bang. “This was a distinction framed by an Englishman I knew in Dawson City.”

“There is no difference,” acknowledged Mr. Fraser in reply to Uncle’s question.

“What was the Family Compact?” I asked.

“As its name implies, a compact that lorded over Ontario in the old days.”

“It came to an end after the William Lyon MacKenzie rebellion. MacKenzie, with a bunch of Scotch Grits and devil-dodgers, set out to be the father of a Northern Revolution. The scheme failed after a little bloodshed. Since that time, the descendants of the leaders have used so much ink in trying to show how the rebellion was justified and its results meritorious, that the poor old Family Compact has suffered badly.”

“Poor Family Compact,” murmured Mr. Fraser in mock tones of condolence.

“People who use doubtful means invariably complain that their opponents were the first to be unfair,” continued Mr. Bang, who was quite unruffled. “This is a process much used by the Yankees since their revolution, and it apparently has secured them peace of mind.”

And so banter was indulged in and our supper ended pleasantly. I learned what a devil-dodger is. “There are those who tread the straight and narrow way from love of God; others from fear of the devil,—and these are the devil-dodgers. Scotch Grits are mostly devil-dodgers,” said Mr. Bang.

“It requires the highest type of patriotism to prompt an honest Canadian to devote his life to politics,” so said Uncle.

“That ‘the Government of a people is as good as they deserve’ is an old saying, and Canada is no exception. Our press panders to the rich. Our Governments confer knight-hoods on grafters, financial adventurers, and corruptionists—” this from Mr. Bang.

Uncle chimed in, “Democracy is an experiment to which the regent has yet to be applied.”

“Man is a mean and vicious animal, and the process of ‘trusting the people’ must bring trouble to the world.”—Mr. Bang.

“Virtue is an abnormal development.”—Uncle.

“Society is the folly of the day.”—Mr. Fraser.

“Class prejudice is the strongest lever in politics.”—Mr. Bang. Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!

January 13th.

I sat through the Opening of Parliament without a word. Gossip, comment, praise, and ridicule, bombarded my ears from four sides. I was lost in reverie. I once more reviewed my experiences, aims, and aspirations, the workings of my mind, and my schemings, since I came to Mumsie; and while my ways have been devious I seem to have journeyed from nowhere to—the same no—place. My first effort towards making friends with Mrs. Mount has, as Mr. Bang would say, “petered out.” This ambition was lost in those newer impulses that came from contact with Charlie Lien. How can I analyze them? Coming like a thought, a visitation from space, from infinity, I do not recognize them and I may not ask. Had I now a mother—Ah! Mumsie is a dear—it is with that sentence I began this diary—but I am not of her; flesh of her flesh, mind of her mind. Had I a mother, I could ask her and she could explain to me this development of what Uncle and Mr. Bang call the “social bug.”

And then the rest!

Mr. Bang’s fairy tale to little Jessie, the story of Ambition, really does not parallel my case, for I have not climbed. I have not had even the fleeting breath of happiness enjoyed by the “beautiful young lady,” while still she was amid the flowers of Friendship and Truth. Perhaps had I never met Charlie Lien and really had luck in securing somebody like Mrs. Mount to take an interest in me, I might have enjoyed that fleeting measure of reward. And the flowers of Friendship and Truth!—I had uprooted and trod them under foot that is true. But it is this blowing hot and cold over Charlie Lien that mystifies me—I seem to control myself so little, where he is concerned.

In his court dress, His Excellency, standing before his Senators, their wives and daughters, the High Court officials with their wives and daughters, and the Members of Parliament; the reading of his words of commendation and hope, all appealed to me, as being of a world to which I truly belonged. To me the assembled officials in their robes, spoke of a world with which my ancestors were intimate. Perhaps such thoughts are in keeping with the inherent process of ancestor worship—that Mr. Bang and Uncle say is ours. In any case, as I have before set down, I can find in it nothing but good.

It was an impressive scene, a pageant of far more potency than any mere form would cause. It spoke of great loyalty, a rule of faith and love. Altogether it was elevating and ennobling. I thank His Excellency for it: I thank Mr. Bang for it. I must not forget, or rather I must try and remember the extent of my indebtedness to him. I am certain that my mind was widened and broadened by this great experience.

There is quite a lot of ceremony about the Opening of Parliament. It always starts at three in the afternoon, and there are those who can get entree to the floor of the Senate Chamber by way of the entrance behind the dais. That is if they have enough “pull.” But I won’t bother with that.

The drowsiness developed by my musings, and the heat of the Senate Chamber, was quickly dispelled on our return to the Hotel by meeting Mrs. Mount.

“Why Mrs. Mount,” exclaimed Mumsie, on finding her in the rotunda.

Mrs. Mount looked at us coldly, said: “How do you do,” and started away on a long tirade.

“I got so beastly tired of home and, do you know, I said to Doris that I really thought we must have a change. Doris has never yet attended a Drawing-room,” etc., etc. It was a long dissertation about her habits and doings. She was evidently a guest of the Hotel, so was not the guest of Lady Matthews. Nor did she offer any explanation of the difference from what she had led us to expect. Probably she had forgotten the account she gave us a week or so ago, wherein Lady Matthews,—“Clair as I always call her”—had invited her to the opening. Mrs. Mount I’m afraid, has lost her novelty for me, and I’m with Uncle in putting her beyond the pale.

Mr. Bang was most attentive to-day. Probably my latest mood has attracted him. Still I cannot reconcile myself to the thought of inscribing on my visiting card, “Mrs. Bang.”

After the opening I fell into a long conversation with Mr. Fraser. He is a pleasant man to talk to. And I can quite understand how his chief is the charming personality everybody says he is.

“It is not wonderful,” said he, “that you find Mr. Bang a strange character. He is of the school of many years ago. Changes of temperament, like fashions, develop in the great centres, the capitals of Europe. Jack’s tricks of mind are of another age handed down from generation to generation, true to its parent culture, that culture which took life seriously and whose chief diversion was controversy. His ideals are of that school and have been impervious to change.”

“Oh! I see,” I agreed, in no positive tone.

“I don’t know if I have made myself clear,” continued Mr. Fraser, “but perhaps you may better understand what I mean when I tell you, that French scholars say they find in Quebec phrases and expressions that have been dead for ages in France. So old habits of thought are still with us. Jack is, however, one of the best of fellows.”

Mr. Fraser’s tone in speaking of Mr. Bang is most sympathetic which reconciles me somewhat to the man, if not to his name.

January 14th.

“Oh, Mrs. Somers,” blustered Mrs. Mount to Mumsie when I was with her in the drawing-room this morning, “I have had such a shock, such a shock and do you know, really, I don’t exactly know how I am to get over it.”

“Why, what can the matter be?” asked Mumsie, responding to the evidences of distress with measurable interest.

“Oh! I have had a shock, such a dreadful shock———”

“What is it?” again demanded Mumsie, apprehensively, while I felt like quoting: “Oh dear! what can the matter be?”

“Do you know, really, I have always understood that my Doris was to have the most expensive dress at the Opening, and now, do you know what I have discovered? I have found out that a horrid American creature, a Miss Spruce from New York, has arrived and is to wear a dress costing no less than ten thousand dollars—ten thousand dollars—think of that! Dear! dear! dear!” and the good lady stamped her foot and protruded her chin.

“That is too bad, it must be a great disappointment,” said Mumsie in the most sympathetic tones, “but then Doris may be—I have no doubt is—a very much better-looking girl than Miss Spruce.”

“Yes, yes, yes; no, no, no; that is, Doris is much the better-looking girl, certainly. Doris is so sweet, so graceful, so everything don’t you know, really, but then you know these American creatures make up so wonderfully ———”

“Can’t you have Doris make up too?” suggested Mumsie with innocence sublime.

“But everybody will know Miss Spruce’s dress has cost ten thousand dollars, they do already, you know. I’ve heard it from half a dozen people and she has been in the hotel only one hour—only one hour—just fancy!”

Mumsie affected a fitting expression of amazement, which I copied to the best of my ability.

“Only one hour!” repeated Mumsie in doleful tones, and then pitching her voice to a key of joyousness cried: “Don’t tell anybody and they will never know Doris’s did not cost ten thousand dollars—nobody will know the difference ———”

Mrs. Mount gazed at Mumsie as if she were deciding whether to shriek or cry. She did not do either, but in a voice sepulchral murmured:

“Mrs. Somers, I’ve already told twenty people that Doris’s dress cost one thousand dollars. As a matter of fact, it really only cost six hundred and fifty, but I said a thousand as I always like to deal in round figures. All Ottawa has heard of Doris’s thousand dollar dress, and that I cabled to Paris for it. There is nothing for it; I’m beat, I’m beat. And, by a beastly Yankee whose father made his money out of chewing-gum. Chewing gum! just fancy!” Mrs. Mount wore an air of complete defeat as she walked away.

As Mrs. Mount left us, Uncle and Mr. Bang came up, and Mumsie recounted the scene with admirable skill. Uncle was highly amused and laughed immoderately; Mr. Bang being in a less doleful frame of mind than usual, became almost gleeful. Dear old Mumsie!

Uncle then informed us that he must leave for home by the Sunday morning train. This was a disappointment to us, of course, and then Mr. Bang said:

“Auntie, I learn that Norway Lake Hotel is the last word of comfort and—as Elsie will be pleased to hear—fashion. We can leave here Sunday morning and be there at three in the afternoon. And, do you know—I won’t add the ‘really,’ unless my ears or understanding played me false—Mrs. Mount is also——”

“If Mrs. Mount is going that fact will give Norway Lake its certificate,” cut in Mumsie.

I stood limp—Norway Lake!—not Mrs. Mount or her daughter was the person to whom my mind flew, but Charlie Lien. But what could I say—do? For a healthy debutante to decline to go to a winter resort, such a winter resort as Norway House, would be suspicious. I said nothing.

January 15th.

It is all over; I have made my bow. I am really in society. In a great, gloomy corridor hundred and hundreds of us stood for hours, trampling on each other. The human sand ran very slow, but at long last we—I—filed in. Battered and bruised I passed up the aisle underneath the gallery and handed my card to an aide. In stentorian tones he announced my name, but although his voice was good and strong, I felt it falling on an indifferent world. I passed into the limelight, curtesied to His Excellency and then to Her Excellency. It was over. Only a moment, and it was done.

The faces of their Excellencies, as I paid tribute, were smiling kindly. Standing to the left of their Excellencies were their daughters. We passed, the procession passed, in front of them, and out: and then upstairs into the gallery, where I took my stand and watched those coming after. This is all there is to making one bow, except getting one’s bouquet crushed; and yet as a ceremony it means much. I am in Society.

After it was over, back to the hotel we went. This as a dress parade was a greater success than the Drawing-room, for the really grand dresses simply swarmed in, and a better look was to be had of them.

Mrs. Mount, Doris and Miss Spruce were included in one party. Our own was very happy, in fact, I felt more genuinely happy than I have been since my first advent to Mumsie’s home. Of course, Mr. Bang abused the Scotch Grits and the Yankees, but not to excess this time.

Mumsie asked Mr. Bang what practical good there was in abusing the Yankees, to which he replied:

“Auntie, if one believes the Yankee version of their Revolution, and the causes thereof, he must conclude the Loyalists, our ancestors, were a people lacking in virility. To the everlasting harm of our country our own schools teach that twaddle. British schools teach it, because it is the essence of Whig doctrine, and the Whigs and the Liberals are fully alive to the policy of catching recruits young.”

“But what harm does it do?” persisted Mumsie.

“Simply that the English youth emigrating to America choses Yankee-land instead of Canada. And here in Canada, our young men, having been taught to despise their fathers, and respect the Yankees, have left their homes for the mammon of unrighteousness. But now a change is at hand. To-day Canada is the land of opportunity. The United States has reached the apex of its prosperity, it is becoming a tired people. The tide is flowing with us and our young men are staying at home.”

Were this diary a novel, I should now bring it to a close. What a sorry tale it is, telling only of failure, at least on my part. And what a halting lover Mr. Bang would make, providing he is a lover; I cannot help thinking. And Charlie Lien is tame even as a villain, but then he might be doctored up. A little bit of melodrama! What a pity the mock-marriage and the abduction is so worn out. Surely I can invent at least a new staging for the old theme. Perhaps if I can do so, all this, my writing, will not have been in vain. Indeed in a month I have felt the impelling force of ambition, and all the pangs that come from humiliation.

A strange mixing will take place at Norway House—Mrs. Lien, the women of wealth, in whom ennui is a genuine complaint; Mrs. Mount, who envies Mrs. Lien, but cannot command courage enough to affect her pose; Mumsie, dear old Mumsie! Mr. Bang, Charlie Lien and—. Here is a setting for an inventive mind, scope for the villain’s villainy, field for a hero’s heroism. Who might be the hero? Could Mr. Bang be a hero? He hasn’t quite the name.

January 17th.

Jack Bang has saved my life and I hate him! How I hate him! I know now the meaning of “a consuming hate.” My heart seems of lead. I am frightened because I hate him so much.

Charlie Lien was taking me down the toboggan slide when it happened. Mrs. Lien and Mrs. Mount were there, each with a cavalier; and Mumsie with Mr. Bang. Charlie and I had reached the head of the stairs and had placed our toboggan ready and I had just seated myself. Mrs. Mount was next in turn and was talking to Charlie.

“Do you know, really, Mr. Lien, I think you are the nicest young man I ever met. You are such a good sport, and so good to everybody, even if they don’t amount to anything ———”

At this point I felt the toboggan move, and a moment after a number of shrieks, and then a great thump behind and then—a hundred sensations. The toboggan skidded this way and that, first on one side of the slide and then on the other, till it settled down to its arrow-like course, by which time I was exhausted through fright. To fortify myself I put my arm behind me and with it encircled what I thought was the head of Charlie Lien, murmuring, “Oh, Charlie, oh! Charlie.”

Imagine my feelings when I found I had the head of Mr. Bang. At the moment I would willingly have severed my right hand to have retrieved my mishap. Oh! oh! how can I express my mortification? No words of mine can tell.

I suppose Mumsie, and Uncle, and other old-fashioned people would say that it was noble of Mr. Bang to say “It was nothing,” and to ignore the fact that I had put my arm about his neck and called him Charlie. If he had only appeared one whit more self-satisfied after the occurrence, I believe I could almost love him. But, possibly, for him to feel more self-satisfied than he does is beyond his capacity. And then if he had only smiled even cynically when our eyes met at the bottom of the slide, I could forgive him much—the beast!

It all happened through that wretched woman, Mrs. Mount, who wants him for a son-in-law, trying to win him, I know. Charlie let go the handles of the toboggan just a moment to look at this audacious creature when the toboggan slid off. Of course, without its steersman it would have run over the side of the run-way and I would have been killed. But Mr. Bang, who was watching everything as usual, made a spring as I passed him and landed, where Charlie should have been, behind me. He certainly did well after he gained the steersman’s seat. Had he been unable to steady the toboggan and we had both gone over the run-way, we would have been killed—wouldn’t we?

Of course, it broke up the tobogganning for the morning. Everybody crowded round us. Mumsie was almost as white as the snow when she came up. Mrs. Lien was most sympathetic. Others said nice things and then Mrs. Mount, having reserved her fire until the last, said: “Oh! Miss Travers, it was all so melographic. We shall expect a romance to grow out of this, shan’t we, Mrs. Somers?”

I was so angry I nearly fainted through the effort I made in restraining myself. Of course, too, I had no fitting retort ready. It would be so nice if we would only have a stock of retorts ready for use on emergency. And I don’t believe there is any such word as melographic.

I know Mrs. Mount wants Charlie Lien for her Doris, and this knowledge came through a conversation I heard last night. Norway House has wonderful acoustic properties. Sounds come from everywhere, anywhere, and last night as I lay in bed, I heard the following:

“But, Mother, the Travers girl is quite good-looking, and I don’t see why Charlie Lien should not marry her.”

“Doris,” came Mrs. Mount’s voice in the severest tones, “You must not contradict your mother. I say the Travers girl is not nearly as good-looking as you are—you who are all grace and beautiful as a cowslip in the morning dew—”

“Oh, Mother!”

“Now, don’t contradict—”

“But, Mother, Charlie has had Miss Travers to lunch at the Hunt Club, and they’ve been seen together several times.”

“Now, now, Doris, you should know young men will be young men. But it’s time Charlie Lien began to look around serious-like—”

“But why should he fancy me?”

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s why I want you to put your best foot forward, don’t you know, really———”

“But Mother, if Mrs. Somers did not think there was something in the affair between Charlie and Miss Travers———”

“Now, Doris, I don’t want any more back answerings. To show I ain’t a fool, I may tell you that I’ve sounded Mrs. Somers and have found out it’s the big fellow who has put up the coin, so now! It’s all very plain—”

“But Mother, Mr. Bang is not paying Miss Travers any attention.”

“Now, Doris, I have told you already I don’t want any back answerings. You’re my daughter, and I want to see you well married. When I’m dying I don’t want to be thinking of you sitting round a boarding-house about the time you should be a grandmother.”

“There’s lots of time, Mother.”

“There ain’t lots of time, and you know it. Don’t you know, really, there ain’t a Charlie Lien to be picked up every day.”

“But, Mother, I can’t pick him—”

“Doris,” the mother’s voice was rising in anger, “what did I say about back answerings?”

“Well, Mother, do please give me time to think. Assuming Charlie is having a harmless flirtation—”

“Harmless flirtation, indeed, with a hussy that has no money, and no good clothes to set off what few good looks she has got—”

At this point I heard a door slam. Evidently Doris had left her mamma whose voice was getting coarser every second the controversy continued. “Hussy indeed!” I thought. Her Doris! Bah! But how in the name of fortune did Doris learn of my doings with Charlie Lien. Of course, no mention was made of the Palm-room, which is a comfort. And how coarse the mother’s voice became as it gained in heat. Her “ain’ts” and her “back answerings”—Oh! to think of my having toadied to her! I painted her picture at my age, a buxom slattern, that is what she was, a slattern, the butt of every jolly cavalier who felt a budding wit; bare feet, possibly, and dirty petticoats, tattered and torn! And her home, the tavern at the dusty corner, the long intervals between the coming and going of guests; the wild acclaim, the shouted jest, the latest news from the seat of war, political, or otherwise.

And to think that I, Elsie Travers, toadied to her!

The conversation I have recorded I heard on Sunday night. Of course, there has been nothing else to record—beyond the fact that we travelled by the same train as the Mounts.

And now to return to the thread of my narrative. After the first flutter of excitement and Mrs. Mount’s stab at matchmaking, I had a fit of nerves and went to my room. I had my lunch sent to me; I wished to think. And I thought and thought; and then I realized that all my effort could not hit upon a line of action. What to do? Would that a fairy would speak!

But a demon spoke—a demon, a hell-cat’s words with the philosophy of Satan!

Shortly after lunch I heard the Mounts at it again.

“I’m sure she’ll never marry him now. What girl would marry a man who would imperil her life so?”

“What do you know of diplomacy? Will you answer me that now, you who was so fond of back answering last night?”

“I—”

“I tell you, you know nothing. The girl’s gone to bed, and her no more scared than you be.”

“But, Mother, her nerves—”

“Her nerves, her nothing, all bunkum! She’s gone to bed to ketch him. She’s going to ketch him if you don’t look out. That’s what I’m frightened of.”

“But how?”

“How—how—how? Don’t you know how the chorus girls ketch the lordlings? Why, keep him at a distance, you bet. I’ll tell you she’s no fool, that girl is no fool. That fledgling is a wise bird, as wise as the ‘chicken^[5] wid de big eye.’ ”

“Will keeping a lordling at a distance catch him?”

“Ketch him? Certainly, didn’t I say so before. Keep him chasing, chasing, chasing and never satisfy him until he pops.”

“Pops, Mother?”

“Pops the question, of course. Now mark my words, see if the hussy does not pout, squirm, and lally gag; make out she’s mortal offended and play him to a finish. That is, she would do it if she knew enough—”

Of course, I could not see Mrs. Mount as she spoke; but her voice—her words and expression were totally different from what she used in society. But her words gave a stimulus to my thoughts. I was very angry. To be called a “hussy.” And the slurs the women made against me! I hated her for it, even more than I hated Jack. And so I thought again. And then I reached a decision. I would fulfil Mrs. Mount’s prophecy. I would repulse Charlie Lien and flirt with Jack Bang. But I would revenge myself on both the woman and the man, I mean Charlie Lien. If Charlie proposes to me I shall say “NO.” So bids the spirit of my ancestors.

I appeared at dinner and was the sensation of the moment. I smiled, oh so sweetly, on Mr. Bang, and after dinner settled down to a book at the side of Mumsie in the fireside circle. Mrs. Lien and Mumsie fell to talking. Out of the vast amount of small talk that I heard, the following remains in my memory:

“Do you know, Mrs. Somers, my cook absolutely refused to cook a dinner if Lady Billings was to be a guest. I reasoned with her—it was no use. ‘Mrs. Lien,’ said she, ‘I refuse to cook a dinner for Molly Fenton.’ ‘But, Kate,’ I pleaded, ‘I don’t ask you to serve it. All I ask you to do is to cook it.’ ‘I don’t care,’ she answered. ‘I’ll walk out of your house before I’ll cook a dinner for Molly Fenton, even if she now is Lady Billings. When we were children together, Mother would not allow me to play with her, and I won’t cook a dinner for her now.’ ”

January 18th.

I arranged it all most successfully. I really believe I am diplomatic. Mr. Bang asked me to go snow-shoeing with him this morning. We went. The sky was bright, the wind was up and it was very cold, almost numbing. We crossed Norway Lake, and down into the forest, and then we felt no wind, and as we walked and walked, I felt a gentle glow come over me.

I soon found I lost myself in the interest I gained in Mr. Bang’s conversation, just as I did one day long ago. He told me of the forest wilds of British Columbia, and trappers’ tales of the deer, and the martin, and the fisher, and the beaver, and that strange creature, the Canada-Jay, or Whiskey Jack.

“You talk like an animal story book,” I remarked.

“Do I?” he asked. “I’m sorry. The animal story men are fakers, and I would not like you to think me a faker. There is not a trapper in the West who is not more or less conversant with the writings of this class of authors. All I have heard speak of them, damn them up and down. Even I dislike them, and wonder at the public taste. But then the public is an ass.”

Wapoose is the rabbit of the North. His tracks were everywhere about. In the North everybody, everything lives on the rabbit. The Indians, trappers, the owls, the fox, the wolf, all feast upon poor wapoose. And like many another faithful friend he is despised.

But the silence of the forest is oppressive. Stepping into it one feels as if one entered the realm of nature. One feels the temporary guest of the world where a ceaseless war is being waged, in which the fittest only survive, where animal life is maintained by the death of animal life. Nature is as cruel as a steel-trap that the fur-hunter sets for the fox.

And the trees stand about spectral in the silence; the firs and spruces with their branches laden with snow-droop as if in shame. They picture modesty. The clatter of a squirrel, or the squeak of a tom-tit, or the hammer, hammer of the woodpecker come at long intervals. They merely announce the great oppressive silence, each striking his own note.

All the region round about Norway Lake is a Government game and timber reserve. The streams are filled with beaver and the woods with other fur-bearing animals.

We came to a beaver-dam, Mr. Bang recognizing the rounded ridge in the snow marking the dam and domes of snow marking the houses. He told me of the strange family huddled in these humble homes and the superstitions they have engendered.

And after two hours tramp we came to Napoleon’s cabin. Napoleon is one of the game wardens, and by a strange chance was known to Mr. Bang. Mr. Bang had planned our tramp that we might call on his friend. Napoleon was at home. I really believe Mr. Bang had sent him word we were coming, as everything about the cabin was so neat, and the warm air that greeted us at the open door was in itself hospitable. It told me I might take off my wraps and rest and be comfortable.

Napoleon was a grim customer whose broken English was that of the Canadian French. His grin was expansive. He asked question after question of mutual friends in the Kootenays, but his eye was continually on me; that is, in a sly way, he was continually glancing at me.

As I sat perfectly happy and lazy it struck me I was in an odd position, deep in the forest, in the cabin of a good-natured savage. But somehow I felt safe, and I felt I was absorbing local colour by the bucket-full, and could now feel superior to the mere reader of books. I fancied my two companions fighting wolves, and bears, and wild Indians, all most exciting. This shows only that in some ways I have not yet ceased being a child.

Just as Napoleon was putting the finishing touches on the laying of the lunch table, his accumulating admiration burst its bounds.

“By gosh! shees look for nice leetle girl, some day maybe shees Messus Bang, uh?”

Of course, I blushed crimson. Fortunately Mr. Bang’s face was turned away from me, and, of course, he could not turn to look at me, and so could not measure, my confusion. But I saw his—his confusion. He flushed a moment and admonished Napoleon not to take things too seriously. But I had heard it, the spoken words, “Mrs. Bang.” Really, they did not sound so very awful. I think the pleasurable anticipation I felt for the savory lunch must have made them less objectionable.

I did enjoy that lunch!

January 20th.

I am to be Mrs. Bang and am reconciled. Fate has spoken and all sensibilities have been matched by Fate. And oh! what an adventure was ours. Has all history such another tale to tell? I know now what my hate for Jack meant; it was the fight my spirit put up against his spirit. But his has now the mastery and I love him. After all, I believe a woman’s greatest privilege is to love. It is so much more blessed to give than to receive. How infinite is the philosophy of the Bible!

As I held his poor, lacerated head in my lap in the depths of the forest last night, I gave up my soul. He murmured, “You have saved my life,” and I felt it was true. It was all so tragic, so terrible, so glorious.

As I lie in bed propped up in pillows, my own head bandaged, I can see them now, savage, furious, bristling beasts—the World, the Flesh and the Devil. What power they held, what fury, hate, and passion! How vast is the scope of nature.

Jack and I went to Napoleon’s cabin and had lunch and then it began to snow and we tarried. And then the snow stopped and we set out, and the wolves came. How my blood ran chill as I heard their howling coming near and nearer. We were too far from Napoleon’s cabin to retreat, besides their howlings came from our rear.

I suppose I have no right to call old Devil by that name, as he was leader of the pack, but it fitted him so well.

There was no hesitation in his movements. As an arrow from a twanging bow-string he sprang at Jack’s throat. Of course, I only call them the World, the Flesh, and the Devil for the purposes of this narrative. I am not trying to turn my diary into an allegory. They were all devils, but I must individualize them. Devil was the biggest, strongest, fiercest.

When Jack learned by the howling of the wolves they were on our trail, he armed himself with a great club, and after arming me with a smaller club, he lifted me into the branches of a birch tree. Then he took up his stand, my defender, my savior, my hero. He stood with his back against the tree trunk.

His views of life are so noble, so broad, so profound. I have told him everything, that is, almost all about everything. This, of course, is since the fight. His comment was so far-reaching, so generous.

Folly visits most homes and most individuals sometimes in our lives. The thing is to come through it, and having come through it not to be worse than when going in, for we must be wiser. Our grip on life is stronger. To have made an error in younger life and to recognize that error makes us surer-footed on the trail of life, and it gives us a measure of our powers of resistance.

And then I told him the real climax of my life, which is the climax of this story, came to me last Thursday as I sat in the Senate Chamber. Then the spirit of my ancestor spoke as it never spoke before. Then I made my choice; then I realized Society was indeed the folly of the age. To this he replied with the question:

“Can you wonder the Chinese worship their ancestors? Perhaps we—”

“Perhaps we may drop Christianity for ancestor—”

“It is not necessary to drop Christianity. Christianity is not incompatible with ancestor-worship.”

Dear Jack!

Darkness was settling down over the scene and Devil’s eyes gleamed fire as he came. And so did the eyes of World and Flesh, for the three were in the air at the same time. Three pairs of jaws snapped together like steel traps, pitilessly. Oh! the cruelty of those jaws.

As the three snapped their jaws, Jack’s club swung round and they were hurled away. In the attack Devil sprang at Jack with Flesh at his left and World at his right. Jack’s club caught Flesh behind the ear and made him feel very sorry. And World and Devil sat on their haunches and snapped.

Jack glared at the wolves and the wolves glared at Jack. I called to him: “Jack, why do you not come up into the tree with me?” It was the first time I had ever called him Jack.

“That would not do, for if we stayed in the tree very long we should freeze to death. I must stay below and fight for us both, dear.”

My hero!

World and Devil sat at a distance and licked their chops, while Flesh wandered about with his head bent low.

What woman knowing she was loved by such a man could help returning his love. We were primitive, and I’ve heard love is primitive, back through the ages to when man had little but his superior intelligence to guard his love.

As Flesh regained his senses, the three threshed about up and down and then they sprang, this time Devil coming at my foot. Of course, it was all fancy, but I fancied I felt his hot breath. I foiled his attempt while Jack managed to hit him over the back. It was not a very hard blow as its force was spent ere it reached him, it having actually been aimed at the other two.

Darkness was settling fast, and this fact increased my horror. Jack enquired if I were cold. I answered, no. This was between the howling of the wolves. Jack asked me if I could climb higher into the tree. I replied I could not. Then he told me to pluck from the tree all the loose bark I could and roll it into bundles. This I did as the wolves held a longer council of war. They circled round and round the tree, ugly, grey, devilish, watchful brutes. Jack told me to undo the sash I wore round my waist and lower it to him. This I did, and then he told me to shout and wave my arms to attract the wolves’ attention. When I did as he requested, he drew his knife and his match-box from his pocket and, placing his club between his knees, tied them into the end of the sash and told me to hoist away. With the knife I managed to secure a much greater quantity of birch bark. I asked if I should light any of the bark, but Jack said no, as it was no use driving the wolves away unless we beat them. By this he meant that should we merely frighten them into the forest depths we were still their prisoners. The bark was to be for an emergency.

The wolves crept closer, ever watchful, the cruel beasts! Their howlings and the snap, snap of their teeth seemed to grow louder and more frequent. Suddenly they sprang, Devil at Jack’s throat. Jack had swung his club in order to guard me; this caused his left shoulder to remain unprotected. Devil seized it in his fangs. Fortunately Jack had been able to throw up his left elbow to protect his neck, but over he went. Quick as lightning the other two were on him.

I lighted the birch bark, and with it flaming in my hand, dropped into the midst of the raging, struggling pack. Oh! the glory of it—to rescue the man I loved—and, incidentally, to save my own life, for I did not know then that Napoleon was on his way to our rescue.

First in the face of one, then in the face of another I flung the flaming bark, and screamed and shouted. The smell of singeing hair sickened me, but it frightened them away. Although they had tasted blood, dear Jack’s blood, they drew off. And then I remembered. I placed the flaming bark against the birch tree; it burst into flames; the forest round about was lighted up, and then I knelt by the side of my lover.

Napoleon came. His rifle rang out. Devil at least was dead.

And now I have Jack, my Jack! The Mounts and the Liens and all that vulgar, selfish, self-advertising, wasteful crowd; they are nothing . . . .

Mrs. Bang!

THE END

Toronto: T. H. Best Printing Co., Limited

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

Book name and author have been added to the original book cover. The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.

[The end of As Others See Us, by William Henry Pope Jarvis.]